The pointed look is enough to to earn the Bull a disgusted scoff, and Dorian feels his face warm just a touch – hopefully it's less obvious in the dark, or can be blamed on his recent exertions.
Dorian gets to his feet, brushing himself off. The tremor from his hands has faded, though that exhaustion is still there – and will likely remain until he's had a good night's sleep or several.
"I didn't get a good look around," he admits, though there's a touch of guilt there, too. He was so focused on getting himself to the Bull that he hadn't had much of a mind on planning their escape, even though that responsibility should have fallen on Dorian, as well.
Better to present a solution than an apology, though: "I marked where I've been, though, and I have enough chalk that I can continue to do so indefinitely. I expect if we can find our way out of this ruin, we can locate one those ancient lifts. With luck, we can figure out our own way back to the base camp."
The Bull gives an unhappy grunt at the idea. It's the only good idea there is, though, and so he doesn't argue. The fact that they don't have that much of a direction to get out of here to even look for one of those lifts yet though, maybe that changes things a little.
"So, we want to go out and brave it now or wait and see if the darkspawn pass us by? One of them might be smart enough to figure out what that chalk on the wall means but if that happens it's going to take a while. You feel like going for it now or you want to hop up next to me, take a load off for a while?" Better to phrase it that way than to tell Dorian to take a break while he can - the Bull even hints at a suggestion that they do anything to benefit Dorian and he risks Dorian making the call to leave now just to prove he doesn't need it.
"Almost cozy in here, right?" he goes on, because it might work better to make staying about something Dorian actually expects so he might consider it. The Bull pats the stone next to him, angles his head so his wink will be obvious. "We can hang out, chat, get to know each other a little..."
"'Take a load off,' he says. As if this were as simple as a taking a break after one of our sparring sessions."
Dorian lets out an affronted breath at that poor excuse for a wink. While he has the urge to scrub at his eyes to rub away the exhaustion, he instead pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut against the dull throbbing of his head. The bruise at his temple is going to be unsightly – an ugly lump, then an uglier bruise, once it settles. Once they return to to Skyhold, he'll need several layers of makeup to hide it.
A quick, rallying breath, and Dorian looks the Bull over again. Dorian's more logical side reminds him that they're better off moving, that while they're safe for now, that may not remain true for very long. His more empathetic side reminds him that the Bull was heavily injured and nearly torn apart by darkspawn before Dorian arrived. There's little wonder why he might feel the need to take a moment to himself.
Reluctantly, Dorian approaches the desk before turning, taking a seat beside the Iron Bull. He keeps his arms crossed over his chest.
"Just for a few moments," he says. "After that, we ought to get moving, sooner rather than later."
The Bull nods, shifting to face Dorian a little more as Dorian sits down. He tries to stretch, rolling his shoulders back and trying to feel the muscles loosen under the pain of stretching the scraped up skin like that, but his horns hit the ceiling when he tries to straighten up enough to stretch his neck out too, stretch his muscles properly. He grimaces, not loving the reminder of how low the ceiling is, and the remains of the grimace linger on his face as he focuses on Dorian instead.
Digging into Dorian's problems might be a better way to spend this little break, if Dorian is into it. The problem that the Bull's got a way into is mostly settled, but he doesn't think it's the kind of settled where you have to leave it alone, so. Might as well reinforce the message.
"Nevarra's big uh, city of bodies thing, the Grand Necropolis. That's the place you wanted to visit, right?" His grimace from the ceiling finishes fading into something casual and his voice starts getting casual, too. A little too much so, something awkward underneath. "You saying it was for a kind of magic you still had more to learn about threw me off a little. I thought - well, I guess I assumed - that you knew everything about that stuff."
See? The Bull's so not bothered by seeing Dorian's necromancy that he's starting conversations about it. Conversations that invite more info. Because that's something he's okay learning more about.
It's for a purpose, at least. And if he's going to be working with Dorian for a while, maybe knowing more about it could even be useful. If it puts Dorian a little more at ease around him, and gives him something to think about that isn't everything else that's happening right now, then it'll do its job.
Dorian glances over at the noise of that sharp scrape of the Bull's horns against the stone ceiling. The ceiling is lower than Dorian likes, of course, but his height isn't as much of a detriment to him in this place as it is for the Bull.
"To be entirely fair to me, I do know a great deal already." The answer is automatic – just that quick reassurance that he is and can be the most impressive man in the room. "But— yes. I've more to learn, obviously. The Mortalitasi in Nevarra have been performing that type of magic for ages. Their research on the nature of death and its relation to the Fade is fascinating."
"My parents found my fascination with the Mortalitasi quite distasteful," he says, his tone light. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "While necromancy is slightly more accepted in Tevinter, it's hardly welcomed with open arms. 'Why can't you do something more impressive, Dorian? Wouldn't you prefer to become a Knight-Enchanter? Everyone is always so impressed by those big, swinging swords.'"
He casts the Bull a sidelong glance, smirking. The joke is low-hanging fruit – he hopes the Bull appreciates it, nonetheless.
"They allowed it to continue, obviously. Necromancy is a rare school of magic, and more to the point, a difficult school of magic. To master it would be a feat, in and of itself."
Once the topic starts focusing on Dorian, instead of all that fascinating research the necromancers in Nevarra all like doing, things start getting a lot more interesting. When Dorian makes a dick joke in the middle of it and pauses to smirk at him the Bull smirks back - with all Dorian's usual pushback against the crude, lowbrow stuff the Bull usually has fun with, hearing Dorian give it right back to him is always kind of a treat - but he doesn't need the joke to keep him interested.
"Weird. Easy to assume all that magic people feel weird about here is going to be popular in Tevinter. What is it they don't like about it? If getting good at it's impressive, what's knight-enchanter got that necromancy doesn't? Pushing the big swords aside, I mean, pretty sure you can swing one of those whenever you want to."
"It's the tampering with corpses, I expect. The smell alone is likely to grate. And corpses are not in high supply, as you might imagine." Like most places, Tevinter burns their dead.
"The magic empowering a Knight-Enchanter is rare and difficult, as well – though it's rarer in Orlais than it is in Tevinter. It fills a much needed gap in a mage's defense – namely, ways of protecting oneself should one be forced into close quarters combat. Plus, well. The giant, floating sword bit looks impressive. Whether or not the mage wields it with any prowess is another matter entirely."
Dorian hesitates for a second before delicately shrugging again.
"They're in higher demand, as well. The war, you know. So many young mages looking to make names for themselves on Seheron become Knight-Enchanters."
He thinks this is a safe enough topic; they've discussed the war raging between the Imperium and the Qunari a few times already.
The Bull grunts, not minding the topic the way they usually do it, only really digging into the parts of Seheron that the Bull decides to pull up and put out there and even then, not really digging that deep, but still more interested in Dorian and how the stuff they're talking about is effecting him than anything else. "Not you, though."
Which isn't exactly a revelation. When it comes to spending every autumn chasing easy glory at the expense of whoever has the bad luck to get in his way, the Bull can't think of any 'vint less suited. Not that he knows a bunch of those in the way that he knows Krem or Dorian, but it says something about Dorian, anyway.
"So, why corpses, spirits, all that? Not for recognition, at least not the easy kind. Sure it lets you make guys shit their pants and run on the battlefield, but there are probably easier ways to go for that. What did you see in all that stuff that no one else did?"
"Not me," he echoes in agreement. "Alti who go to Seheron – those that truly fight, that is, and not those who treat it as a novel way to spend their autumn break – are those who feel they have few options. They're the fourth-in-lines, the afterthoughts and back-up heirs, who stand to inherent very little. They have something to prove and decide killing Qunari and those sympathetic to the Qun is the way to do it.
"I, on the other hand, had my future planned for me. I was to excel at my studies and climb the ranks in the Circle. Then, I was to marry a finely bred woman of my parents' choosing and sire at least one or two little children, whose care would be left in the hands of capable and austere nannies. After that, I'd ingratiate myself to the Archon and become the darling of the Imperial Senate, hoping all the while that the Archon would see fit to declare me his successor."
Dorian falls silent for a second, frowning down at his lap. He's not sure if he's ever admitted this aloud. Maybe to Alexius, maybe to Felix. He's not sure.
"I chose necromancy because I found it interesting. In Tevinter, some spirits are bound and kept as servants – though they aren't tethered to corpses, as they would be in Nevarra – and I was fascinated by it. I knew it was exceedingly difficult to master, having to open oneself up to spirits to pull them across the Veil, having to exert one's willpower over them to obey one's commands.
"And most importantly, I knew my parents would find it incredibly repugnant."
The Bull chuckles. "Can't forget that part. Good for you, making your own call about your life." That part of it, at least, the Bull can get behind. Yeah under the Qun, the idea of that one path someone's going to stick to is a pretty big one, pretty much one of the top ideas, but that only works as long as the system works. If you have people figuring out the right way to do it. It isn't the kind of thing that actually gets done unless whoever's walking that path actually wants to be put on it, and you have to work with that. Something tells him that Tevinter doesn't exactly approach it that way.
"So... 'interesting', huh?" he asks, with only the tiniest little hint of nerves about hearing the answer. "Were you thinking of it that way because of the whole willpower part of it, proving yourself, or... I don't know, it doesn't seem like it's a power trip for you, and outside that I guess I don't really get it."
Dorian's lips part to answer, but he hesitates, hearing that small bit of anxiety in the Bull's voice. Or it's entirely possible Dorian is reading far too much into it, sensitive as he tends to be about people's dispositions toward magic outside of Tevinter.
He pauses, trying to place this into terms without getting too technical. Sera tends to get antsy when he or Vivienne or Solas take too much time discussing technique or theory, and while the Bull is made of sterner stuff, Dorian still isn't entirely sure where the Bull stands.
"Spirits can be made to do remarkable things," he says. Briefly, he thinks of his short-lived conversation with Solas about the topic, which is why Dorian slowly adds, "Whether or not it's advised is another topic of conversation. Nevertheless, even the simplest spirits can be powerful tools. Necromancy isn't necessarily the most powerful school, at least not at first blush, but it can be terrifying in the right hands."
Pressing his lips together, Dorian adjusts his gloves again – a small outlet for his desire to fidget.
"I think, for a little while, I needed that. I was spiraling, and I felt like my life was entirely out of my hands, and I, ah. I needed to feel I had dominion over something, and I, being the melodramatic little shit I was at the time, decided that 'something' would be death."
"'At the time'?" the Bull asks, leaning over to nudge Dorian's arm with a little grin that fades as his voice goes thoughtful. "I think I kind of follow, though. No control over the most important parts of your life so you went for the biggest, most uncontrollable thing you could think of, shaped that to your will instead. As spiralling goes, people have done a lot worse."
Put that way it does make sense, in a very Dorian kind of way. Grow up in Tevinter where mages don't get warned off that kind of stuff so they don't know to be wary of it, take a guy who doesn't know how to think small and put a pen around him that he doesn't think he has a way out of-
"Shoving fade crap into dead bodies almost sounds like a healthy coping mechanism, when you put it that way," he says, his little grin coming back, finishing his thought out loud mostly to see what Dorian will do with it.
Dorian manages a quiet chuckle at that little tease, head tipping to one side to concede the point.
Dorian can still very much be a melodramatic little shit, but these days, he's far less destructive about it.
"Oh, please, don't get the wrong idea." There's a laugh in his voice, and his lips curl into a small smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'd hate for you to think of me as reasonable or responsible. I had plenty of unhealthy coping mechanisms at work at the time, as well."
His glove adjustments are as complete as they can be, and he forces his hands to settle back on his lap.
"As much as I enjoy discussing myself, there are other matters to attend to." He turns a little, frowning at the Bull. "The matter of your well being, for instance. How are you feeling?"
The Bull shrugs, okay with the focus moving back on him if it helps Dorian get the light off something he doesn't want to go into. Better to be the focus right now than it would have been after they first fell; nothing like almost having your head busted in by darkspawn and then having a chat about someone else's stuff to reset your headspace.
Well. Having the room to move around helps. Not thinking too hard about the injury itself, the injury and its future, that's helped a little, too.
"I'll probably stay up if we can keep sneaking around." Because he's not going to say it hurts - that's obvious, and doesn't really matter - and he's not going to say it's better than it was because it might feel condescending, they both know Dorian seeing to it was a stopgap measure. "Think I'm good to go if we don't need to go too fast. How about you? Holding up alright?"
"My head is liable to explode," he says, falsely chipper. "But otherwise, fine."
Briefly, he prods at the edge of the swelling, imagining how unsightly it's sure to look in the daylight. He scowls a little, letting himself submit to his own vanity, before letting out a sigh. A thoughtful look crosses his face for a moment. With the Bull's injured leg, walking is liable to be a problem. The sooner they're out of here the better, of course, but speed means nothing if the Bull is only likely to hurt himself further.
"You could borrow my staff as a crutch, if you like." Granted, the thing is slightly bent, thanks to the fall, but it'll suffice. "It's likely to offer better support than I."
When Dorian brings it up the Bull studies Dorian's head too, and he's about to say something about it - something he'll have to remember for later, remember to insist that the next healer they find sees Dorian first, because head wounds can be trickier sometimes than the injuries you can actually see - but then Dorian brings up something the Bull's never considered long enough to even know it would make him feel all weird.
Not that he's going to say anything about it. Letting on that the idea of touching a mage's staff - he'll have to remember to make that joke, he doesn't take an opportunity like that and all that work at convincing Dorian he's comfortable enough with magic that Dorian doesn't have to worry could take a big hit - the idea of doing it's waking up the kid somewhere in the back of his head who's too young to know if he's a mage yet, who's heard the stories, who already knows the kind of damage he can do when he's not watching out even without any demons calling the shots, the kid who spent years dreading the thing that would wake some kind of magic up inside him and either take him on some kind of awful rampage or take his whole life away.
Stupid. If that fear hadn't quite faded when they'd declared him ben-hassrath, by the time he finished training it was on its way out. He's way too old for it to decide to come back now. Especially not for something like this.
If the Bull lets on that this kind of little thing is creeping a part of him out, Dorian will laugh. Or, he won't, not and mean it - he'll probably just get all careful around the Bull again, even warier about mentioning the magic thing - but thinking about Dorian laughing at him instead for what a stupid, baseless little fear it is helps the Bull limit his reaction to a moment's neutral expression, to maybe an instant's tenseness in his muscles, a hint of wariness as he eyes the staff, gaze flicking up and down its length.
Don't think about the stupid stuff. Have fun with it. "So you're saying I should take your long hard rod?" he starts, focusing on Dorian and feeling a little smile just starting to grow. "So I can grab it in my big hands and push and just keep pushing on it till it gives out under me? If you're really sure about it, I mean, I thought you wanted to keep playing hard to get a little longer but everyone reacts to stress in their own way, I guess."
With the Bull's face covering in the way, Dorian can't see the smile creeping across the Bull's face.
But he can certainly hear it.
He groans, covering his face with his hand.
"You inveterate lech. How your mind manages to dive so deeply and quickly into the gutter is a mystery I'll never understand. You do it so instinctively that I might almost mistake it as part of your spy training."
The Bull reaches out, trying to grab Dorian's hand to move it away before it can actually get where it's going. "You want to be careful about touching your face right now, big guy," he murmurs, like saying it quietly's going to make the words slip under what easy, casual mood they've managed to build for themselves here away from the rest of the Deep Roads and all its shit, instead of running head-on into it.
"So," he goes on in a more normal voice, wrapping a genuine protest about whether a staff made for a human can handle the full weight of a qunari in another thick layer of innuendo, the better to distract Dorian with, "that mean you don't want me to take your stiff pole and have my way with it till all the magic comes right out? Probably for the best. I'm kind of big, you know, maybe it couldn't handle me."
Dorian goes rigid when the Bull’s hand curls around his wrist, caught between freezing and yanking his hand away – mostly out of instinct and surprise. Then, when the Bull offers his explanation, Dorian shudders a little with revulsion, paling a little at the much needed reminder.
He tries to force some of the tension away, his fingers curling toward his palm, and he mumbles something along the lines of, "Quite right."
Ridiculous, that he should be so careless. He had spent the entire trip down into these Maker-forsaken tunnels thinking about Felix, thinking about the endless days and nights he spent with Alexius trying to save Felix’s life, and here he was, forgetting.
He takes another breath, and while he's nowhere near as relaxed as before, he manages to at least appear to be.
"No need to flatter yourself," Dorian finally replies, and he applauds himself for sounding as haughty as he usually does, even if his heart isn't exactly in it. He pauses, eyes narrowing and gaze sliding slightly past the Bull's shoulder. It's a split-second hesitation before he offers a little more smoothly, a little more quietly, "I'm sure it could handle you just fine.
"In any case," and his voice returns to normal – sharp but somehow lilting, "if this is your way of saying no, you need only come out and say so. You needn't attempt to fluster me into changing the topic, as you're so fond of doing. But I've made the offer, and as horribly received as it has been, I don't intend to rescind it."
The Bull sets one hand on the table, leaning away from Dorian onto it, and the other hand over his legs, in case any of Dorian's reaction when the Bull first grabbed him was down to not wanting to be touched - not by the Bull, anyway, at least right now, while the Bull's still in the middle of making all these jokes about fucking him.
Right now it's not the time, so Dorian might feel better if the Bull and his hands keep their distance - but not forever, still looks like, and Dorian's even getting comfortable enough letting the Bull know it, even if it seems like he doesn't want the Bull to act like he heard it. It could handle you just fine sounds like the impression the Bull got before they fell all this way, before this crap started, is still on Dorian's mind. Not the time to press him on it - that can come later, after Dorian asks for it - but good to hear. The Bull notes it and tucks the fact away, letting Dorian shift the focus.
"Look, you make an offer like that and you can't think I'm not going to make cracks about it." Which is true, even if the Bull would have kind of liked it if it had actually distracted Dorian from having asked the question. But since it didn't, if he wants to keep convincing Dorian to relax around him with the magic thing, he has to commit. So he sighs like he's hard done by and says, "If it really isn't sturdy enough to hold me up you can't tell the boss I broke it, alright? I warned you and everything."
"What, do you think I cast using a twig?" He sounds more amused than affronted, at least. "'Dorian, be a dear and immolate this Venatori encampment with your little toothpick of a wand, would you?'"
He huffs out a laugh, pushing himself to his feet with only a small amount of swaying. He frees his staff from the holster at his back with an almost instinctive flourish, the base of it landing on the floor beside his boot. The staff itself is made of metal, though light enough for Dorian to carry. The grip is slightly out of shape, and the impact of the fall has bent the top half slightly askew. The focus – two twisting dragon's heads, joined by the single crystal in each of its mouths – itself is still intact, if slightly crooked
"If you do happen to break it, somehow, we'll blame it on the fall. Or you can tell people that I snapped it in half over a darkpawn's head. That's believable enough, yes?"
"I'd believe it," the Bull says. He would. If Dorian's ready to risk darkspawn to save the Bull's butt then destroying his own weapon is probably going to seem like small potatoes in comparison. He's eyeing Dorian when he says it, though, part of his mind more focused on how to address that little hint of unsteadiness when Dorian stood up there in a way that might actually accomplish something. He says Dorian needs to lean on the staff too and that's going to sound like he's still trying to get out of touching the thing himself - not to mention the way that, if it sounds like Dorian has to choose between the two of them, Dorian's needs definitely aren't the ones that are going to come out ahead.
"It sturdy enough for us to share?" And then, because it has to be a little bit about the Bull if Dorian's even going to consider it: "'Cause my axe isn't going to do much good until I can actually move, so if your head actually does explode and you fall on your face we're both in for a bad time."
"I'm fine," he replies – mostly on instinct alone. He takes a moment to consider his words, then, "I have all these glorious stone walls to prop me up, should it come to it."
He crosses his arms, glancing up at the wisps drifting at the ceiling. The Bull has a legitimate concern, though; should Dorian fall, either literally or metaphorically, then the Bull would be in a terrible spot. Dorian's magic has been a boon to them both, has protected them this long; it's little wonder that the Bull might be concerned about having that particular buffer taken away.
Sobering, he draws his gaze to the Bull again. "I'll be fine. I promise I'll see you to safety, and then I'll collapse into a graceful heap. It will be wonderfully well-timed and dramatic."
The Bull snorts, giving Dorian a little grin. That's not the answer he wanted but it's the only one he's going to get; in spite of what Dorian might think, the Bull knows when not to push. He'll just have to keep an eye on Dorian and hope for the best.
"Then everyone's going to start thinking I carried you through all this crap. You've got to wait at least until everyone starts asking questions and I start explaining how heroic your ass looked silhouetted against those 'righteous flames purifying the land of darkspawn,' or whatever."
And then there's nothing else for it. He doesn't hesitate, or sigh - it was a good little break, and now it's done - he just hops onto his good leg and reaches out toward the staff, trying to brace himself and look casual at the same time while he waits for Dorian to hand it to him. Nothing's going to happen when he grabs it. It's not going to be weird. It's just a weapon, like anything else. It's Dorian's magic that makes it work. It's just like a walking stick, but fancier. It's going to be fine.
Focus on talking. That part's a little easier.
"You can lean on me," he says. "I'll lean on your staff, and when we find the boss again we can make it look like you're holding me up. Then you get to collapse. That dramatic enough, you think?"
Dorian breathes out another laugh. "A consummate storyteller, aren't you."
He hands the staff over, waiting for the Bull to get a decent enough grip on it – and even then, he waits for the Bull to find his balance. Dorian hovers a little unnecessarily – if the Bull fell right now, Dorian doubts he'd be able to do much – until the Bull is able to stand with the help of the staff.
"I appreciate a dramatic entrance more than anyone, I think," he replies, "but I'm afraid I'll have to pass. I'll be fine."
He lifts a hand, waving the wisps away with a quiet word of thanks. (He didn't used to do that – thank them. He does now, due in no small part to Cole and Solas' influence.) All but two of them fade out of existence, retreating across the Veil; the two remaining float down to Dorian and the Bull, hovering around them as they had before.
Creeping to the door, he presses an ear against the stone, listening intently. There's no movement that he can hear, and he opens it a crack to peek out. Still nothing but an empty, stone hallway, even as he opens it wider.
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Dorian gets to his feet, brushing himself off. The tremor from his hands has faded, though that exhaustion is still there – and will likely remain until he's had a good night's sleep or several.
"I didn't get a good look around," he admits, though there's a touch of guilt there, too. He was so focused on getting himself to the Bull that he hadn't had much of a mind on planning their escape, even though that responsibility should have fallen on Dorian, as well.
Better to present a solution than an apology, though: "I marked where I've been, though, and I have enough chalk that I can continue to do so indefinitely. I expect if we can find our way out of this ruin, we can locate one those ancient lifts. With luck, we can figure out our own way back to the base camp."
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"So, we want to go out and brave it now or wait and see if the darkspawn pass us by? One of them might be smart enough to figure out what that chalk on the wall means but if that happens it's going to take a while. You feel like going for it now or you want to hop up next to me, take a load off for a while?" Better to phrase it that way than to tell Dorian to take a break while he can - the Bull even hints at a suggestion that they do anything to benefit Dorian and he risks Dorian making the call to leave now just to prove he doesn't need it.
"Almost cozy in here, right?" he goes on, because it might work better to make staying about something Dorian actually expects so he might consider it. The Bull pats the stone next to him, angles his head so his wink will be obvious. "We can hang out, chat, get to know each other a little..."
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Dorian lets out an affronted breath at that poor excuse for a wink. While he has the urge to scrub at his eyes to rub away the exhaustion, he instead pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut against the dull throbbing of his head. The bruise at his temple is going to be unsightly – an ugly lump, then an uglier bruise, once it settles. Once they return to to Skyhold, he'll need several layers of makeup to hide it.
A quick, rallying breath, and Dorian looks the Bull over again. Dorian's more logical side reminds him that they're better off moving, that while they're safe for now, that may not remain true for very long. His more empathetic side reminds him that the Bull was heavily injured and nearly torn apart by darkspawn before Dorian arrived. There's little wonder why he might feel the need to take a moment to himself.
Reluctantly, Dorian approaches the desk before turning, taking a seat beside the Iron Bull. He keeps his arms crossed over his chest.
"Just for a few moments," he says. "After that, we ought to get moving, sooner rather than later."
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Digging into Dorian's problems might be a better way to spend this little break, if Dorian is into it. The problem that the Bull's got a way into is mostly settled, but he doesn't think it's the kind of settled where you have to leave it alone, so. Might as well reinforce the message.
"Nevarra's big uh, city of bodies thing, the Grand Necropolis. That's the place you wanted to visit, right?" His grimace from the ceiling finishes fading into something casual and his voice starts getting casual, too. A little too much so, something awkward underneath. "You saying it was for a kind of magic you still had more to learn about threw me off a little. I thought - well, I guess I assumed - that you knew everything about that stuff."
See? The Bull's so not bothered by seeing Dorian's necromancy that he's starting conversations about it. Conversations that invite more info. Because that's something he's okay learning more about.
It's for a purpose, at least. And if he's going to be working with Dorian for a while, maybe knowing more about it could even be useful. If it puts Dorian a little more at ease around him, and gives him something to think about that isn't everything else that's happening right now, then it'll do its job.
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"To be entirely fair to me, I do know a great deal already." The answer is automatic – just that quick reassurance that he is and can be the most impressive man in the room. "But— yes. I've more to learn, obviously. The Mortalitasi in Nevarra have been performing that type of magic for ages. Their research on the nature of death and its relation to the Fade is fascinating."
Dorian falls silent, hands clasped loosely together.
"My parents found my fascination with the Mortalitasi quite distasteful," he says, his tone light. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "While necromancy is slightly more accepted in Tevinter, it's hardly welcomed with open arms. 'Why can't you do something more impressive, Dorian? Wouldn't you prefer to become a Knight-Enchanter? Everyone is always so impressed by those big, swinging swords.'"
He casts the Bull a sidelong glance, smirking. The joke is low-hanging fruit – he hopes the Bull appreciates it, nonetheless.
"They allowed it to continue, obviously. Necromancy is a rare school of magic, and more to the point, a difficult school of magic. To master it would be a feat, in and of itself."
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"Weird. Easy to assume all that magic people feel weird about here is going to be popular in Tevinter. What is it they don't like about it? If getting good at it's impressive, what's knight-enchanter got that necromancy doesn't? Pushing the big swords aside, I mean, pretty sure you can swing one of those whenever you want to."
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"The magic empowering a Knight-Enchanter is rare and difficult, as well – though it's rarer in Orlais than it is in Tevinter. It fills a much needed gap in a mage's defense – namely, ways of protecting oneself should one be forced into close quarters combat. Plus, well. The giant, floating sword bit looks impressive. Whether or not the mage wields it with any prowess is another matter entirely."
Dorian hesitates for a second before delicately shrugging again.
"They're in higher demand, as well. The war, you know. So many young mages looking to make names for themselves on Seheron become Knight-Enchanters."
He thinks this is a safe enough topic; they've discussed the war raging between the Imperium and the Qunari a few times already.
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Which isn't exactly a revelation. When it comes to spending every autumn chasing easy glory at the expense of whoever has the bad luck to get in his way, the Bull can't think of any 'vint less suited. Not that he knows a bunch of those in the way that he knows Krem or Dorian, but it says something about Dorian, anyway.
"So, why corpses, spirits, all that? Not for recognition, at least not the easy kind. Sure it lets you make guys shit their pants and run on the battlefield, but there are probably easier ways to go for that. What did you see in all that stuff that no one else did?"
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"I, on the other hand, had my future planned for me. I was to excel at my studies and climb the ranks in the Circle. Then, I was to marry a finely bred woman of my parents' choosing and sire at least one or two little children, whose care would be left in the hands of capable and austere nannies. After that, I'd ingratiate myself to the Archon and become the darling of the Imperial Senate, hoping all the while that the Archon would see fit to declare me his successor."
Dorian falls silent for a second, frowning down at his lap. He's not sure if he's ever admitted this aloud. Maybe to Alexius, maybe to Felix. He's not sure.
"I chose necromancy because I found it interesting. In Tevinter, some spirits are bound and kept as servants – though they aren't tethered to corpses, as they would be in Nevarra – and I was fascinated by it. I knew it was exceedingly difficult to master, having to open oneself up to spirits to pull them across the Veil, having to exert one's willpower over them to obey one's commands.
"And most importantly, I knew my parents would find it incredibly repugnant."
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"So... 'interesting', huh?" he asks, with only the tiniest little hint of nerves about hearing the answer. "Were you thinking of it that way because of the whole willpower part of it, proving yourself, or... I don't know, it doesn't seem like it's a power trip for you, and outside that I guess I don't really get it."
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He pauses, trying to place this into terms without getting too technical. Sera tends to get antsy when he or Vivienne or Solas take too much time discussing technique or theory, and while the Bull is made of sterner stuff, Dorian still isn't entirely sure where the Bull stands.
"Spirits can be made to do remarkable things," he says. Briefly, he thinks of his short-lived conversation with Solas about the topic, which is why Dorian slowly adds, "Whether or not it's advised is another topic of conversation. Nevertheless, even the simplest spirits can be powerful tools. Necromancy isn't necessarily the most powerful school, at least not at first blush, but it can be terrifying in the right hands."
Pressing his lips together, Dorian adjusts his gloves again – a small outlet for his desire to fidget.
"I think, for a little while, I needed that. I was spiraling, and I felt like my life was entirely out of my hands, and I, ah. I needed to feel I had dominion over something, and I, being the melodramatic little shit I was at the time, decided that 'something' would be death."
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Put that way it does make sense, in a very Dorian kind of way. Grow up in Tevinter where mages don't get warned off that kind of stuff so they don't know to be wary of it, take a guy who doesn't know how to think small and put a pen around him that he doesn't think he has a way out of-
"Shoving fade crap into dead bodies almost sounds like a healthy coping mechanism, when you put it that way," he says, his little grin coming back, finishing his thought out loud mostly to see what Dorian will do with it.
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Dorian can still very much be a melodramatic little shit, but these days, he's far less destructive about it.
"Oh, please, don't get the wrong idea." There's a laugh in his voice, and his lips curl into a small smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'd hate for you to think of me as reasonable or responsible. I had plenty of unhealthy coping mechanisms at work at the time, as well."
His glove adjustments are as complete as they can be, and he forces his hands to settle back on his lap.
"As much as I enjoy discussing myself, there are other matters to attend to." He turns a little, frowning at the Bull. "The matter of your well being, for instance. How are you feeling?"
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Well. Having the room to move around helps. Not thinking too hard about the injury itself, the injury and its future, that's helped a little, too.
"I'll probably stay up if we can keep sneaking around." Because he's not going to say it hurts - that's obvious, and doesn't really matter - and he's not going to say it's better than it was because it might feel condescending, they both know Dorian seeing to it was a stopgap measure. "Think I'm good to go if we don't need to go too fast. How about you? Holding up alright?"
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Briefly, he prods at the edge of the swelling, imagining how unsightly it's sure to look in the daylight. He scowls a little, letting himself submit to his own vanity, before letting out a sigh. A thoughtful look crosses his face for a moment. With the Bull's injured leg, walking is liable to be a problem. The sooner they're out of here the better, of course, but speed means nothing if the Bull is only likely to hurt himself further.
"You could borrow my staff as a crutch, if you like." Granted, the thing is slightly bent, thanks to the fall, but it'll suffice. "It's likely to offer better support than I."
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Not that he's going to say anything about it. Letting on that the idea of touching a mage's staff - he'll have to remember to make that joke, he doesn't take an opportunity like that and all that work at convincing Dorian he's comfortable enough with magic that Dorian doesn't have to worry could take a big hit - the idea of doing it's waking up the kid somewhere in the back of his head who's too young to know if he's a mage yet, who's heard the stories, who already knows the kind of damage he can do when he's not watching out even without any demons calling the shots, the kid who spent years dreading the thing that would wake some kind of magic up inside him and either take him on some kind of awful rampage or take his whole life away.
Stupid. If that fear hadn't quite faded when they'd declared him ben-hassrath, by the time he finished training it was on its way out. He's way too old for it to decide to come back now. Especially not for something like this.
If the Bull lets on that this kind of little thing is creeping a part of him out, Dorian will laugh. Or, he won't, not and mean it - he'll probably just get all careful around the Bull again, even warier about mentioning the magic thing - but thinking about Dorian laughing at him instead for what a stupid, baseless little fear it is helps the Bull limit his reaction to a moment's neutral expression, to maybe an instant's tenseness in his muscles, a hint of wariness as he eyes the staff, gaze flicking up and down its length.
Don't think about the stupid stuff. Have fun with it. "So you're saying I should take your long hard rod?" he starts, focusing on Dorian and feeling a little smile just starting to grow. "So I can grab it in my big hands and push and just keep pushing on it till it gives out under me? If you're really sure about it, I mean, I thought you wanted to keep playing hard to get a little longer but everyone reacts to stress in their own way, I guess."
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But he can certainly hear it.
He groans, covering his face with his hand.
"You inveterate lech. How your mind manages to dive so deeply and quickly into the gutter is a mystery I'll never understand. You do it so instinctively that I might almost mistake it as part of your spy training."
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"So," he goes on in a more normal voice, wrapping a genuine protest about whether a staff made for a human can handle the full weight of a qunari in another thick layer of innuendo, the better to distract Dorian with, "that mean you don't want me to take your stiff pole and have my way with it till all the magic comes right out? Probably for the best. I'm kind of big, you know, maybe it couldn't handle me."
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He tries to force some of the tension away, his fingers curling toward his palm, and he mumbles something along the lines of, "Quite right."
Ridiculous, that he should be so careless. He had spent the entire trip down into these Maker-forsaken tunnels thinking about Felix, thinking about the endless days and nights he spent with Alexius trying to save Felix’s life, and here he was, forgetting.
He takes another breath, and while he's nowhere near as relaxed as before, he manages to at least appear to be.
"No need to flatter yourself," Dorian finally replies, and he applauds himself for sounding as haughty as he usually does, even if his heart isn't exactly in it. He pauses, eyes narrowing and gaze sliding slightly past the Bull's shoulder. It's a split-second hesitation before he offers a little more smoothly, a little more quietly, "I'm sure it could handle you just fine.
"In any case," and his voice returns to normal – sharp but somehow lilting, "if this is your way of saying no, you need only come out and say so. You needn't attempt to fluster me into changing the topic, as you're so fond of doing. But I've made the offer, and as horribly received as it has been, I don't intend to rescind it."
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Right now it's not the time, so Dorian might feel better if the Bull and his hands keep their distance - but not forever, still looks like, and Dorian's even getting comfortable enough letting the Bull know it, even if it seems like he doesn't want the Bull to act like he heard it. It could handle you just fine sounds like the impression the Bull got before they fell all this way, before this crap started, is still on Dorian's mind. Not the time to press him on it - that can come later, after Dorian asks for it - but good to hear. The Bull notes it and tucks the fact away, letting Dorian shift the focus.
"Look, you make an offer like that and you can't think I'm not going to make cracks about it." Which is true, even if the Bull would have kind of liked it if it had actually distracted Dorian from having asked the question. But since it didn't, if he wants to keep convincing Dorian to relax around him with the magic thing, he has to commit. So he sighs like he's hard done by and says, "If it really isn't sturdy enough to hold me up you can't tell the boss I broke it, alright? I warned you and everything."
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He huffs out a laugh, pushing himself to his feet with only a small amount of swaying. He frees his staff from the holster at his back with an almost instinctive flourish, the base of it landing on the floor beside his boot. The staff itself is made of metal, though light enough for Dorian to carry. The grip is slightly out of shape, and the impact of the fall has bent the top half slightly askew. The focus – two twisting dragon's heads, joined by the single crystal in each of its mouths – itself is still intact, if slightly crooked
"If you do happen to break it, somehow, we'll blame it on the fall. Or you can tell people that I snapped it in half over a darkpawn's head. That's believable enough, yes?"
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"It sturdy enough for us to share?" And then, because it has to be a little bit about the Bull if Dorian's even going to consider it: "'Cause my axe isn't going to do much good until I can actually move, so if your head actually does explode and you fall on your face we're both in for a bad time."
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He crosses his arms, glancing up at the wisps drifting at the ceiling. The Bull has a legitimate concern, though; should Dorian fall, either literally or metaphorically, then the Bull would be in a terrible spot. Dorian's magic has been a boon to them both, has protected them this long; it's little wonder that the Bull might be concerned about having that particular buffer taken away.
Sobering, he draws his gaze to the Bull again. "I'll be fine. I promise I'll see you to safety, and then I'll collapse into a graceful heap. It will be wonderfully well-timed and dramatic."
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"Then everyone's going to start thinking I carried you through all this crap. You've got to wait at least until everyone starts asking questions and I start explaining how heroic your ass looked silhouetted against those 'righteous flames purifying the land of darkspawn,' or whatever."
And then there's nothing else for it. He doesn't hesitate, or sigh - it was a good little break, and now it's done - he just hops onto his good leg and reaches out toward the staff, trying to brace himself and look casual at the same time while he waits for Dorian to hand it to him. Nothing's going to happen when he grabs it. It's not going to be weird. It's just a weapon, like anything else. It's Dorian's magic that makes it work. It's just like a walking stick, but fancier. It's going to be fine.
Focus on talking. That part's a little easier.
"You can lean on me," he says. "I'll lean on your staff, and when we find the boss again we can make it look like you're holding me up. Then you get to collapse. That dramatic enough, you think?"
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He hands the staff over, waiting for the Bull to get a decent enough grip on it – and even then, he waits for the Bull to find his balance. Dorian hovers a little unnecessarily – if the Bull fell right now, Dorian doubts he'd be able to do much – until the Bull is able to stand with the help of the staff.
"I appreciate a dramatic entrance more than anyone, I think," he replies, "but I'm afraid I'll have to pass. I'll be fine."
He lifts a hand, waving the wisps away with a quiet word of thanks. (He didn't used to do that – thank them. He does now, due in no small part to Cole and Solas' influence.) All but two of them fade out of existence, retreating across the Veil; the two remaining float down to Dorian and the Bull, hovering around them as they had before.
Creeping to the door, he presses an ear against the stone, listening intently. There's no movement that he can hear, and he opens it a crack to peek out. Still nothing but an empty, stone hallway, even as he opens it wider.
"We're clear," he whispers.
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